16
Denver, Colorado
“All right, Brian,” Roger Brinkman said to the guest in his apartment. “The things we’ve discussed don’t merit another visit this soon. What’s bugging you?”
Novak turned a saturnine gaze on his host. “The rumor mill. A glimmer of gossip says the Octopus may have grown another tentacle. And maybe some of the old issues aren’t as settled as we thought. You remember Project Coast?”
“The South African chemical and biological weapons program? That was years ago. They shut it down in 1993. International inspectors confirmed it.”
Novak nodded. “The post-Apartheid government’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission also held hearings. Everyone concluded Project Coast was dead and its materials destroyed.”
“What’s bringing it up again?”
“Rumors of stuff on the international black market. You’d expect the Russian mafia to peddle leftover stocks from the old Soviet Union, but the new stuff that’s rumored doesn’t come from there—at least, as far as we can find out.”
“Where does it come from?”
“We don’t know. We aren’t sure that it really exists, but we’d like to find out before some terrorist group gets in the act.”
“Why did you mention South Africa?”
“Desperation. I drew negatives everywhere else. So I called up our files on the South Africa business. While they were shutting the program down, one lab was destroyed by arson—a terrorist attack, everyone thought. They found the right number of bodies inside—all three badly shot up before they were burned. Dental records identified a lab assistant and a secretary. The third was decapitated and the head was never found. It was presumed to be the chief researcher, a fellow named Wevers Koenraad. But the ID wasn’t positive.”
“That’s not much to build a theory upon.”
“A couple of other odd things. Several researchers on Project Coast ran a racket on the side, mainly cocaine and Ecstasy. Koenraad was known to be one of those and was thought to have a trunk full of Ecstasy just before the fire. The trunk was never found. Koenraad had a degree from Cambridge, but he was a bad actor—considered himself superior to everyone around him. His coworkers were afraid he might eventually go off the deep end.”
“He hasn’t turned up anywhere ,then?”
“The South African government put out notices about him—covertly, of course—but no information ever came. Oh, a couple of lowlifes got murdered in Johannesburg shortly after that. Nothing special about them except that both specialized in forging passports. Quite a coincidence.”
Brinkman tented his fingers. “You obviously think there’s something substantive behind all of this, or you wouldn’t mention it. What are you looking for?”
“I wish I knew. Anything to suggest traffic in chemical or biological weapons.”
“Not very definite.”
Novak turned his palms upward. “It’s the best I can do. I don’t expect you to spend money on it, but I’d be interested if you hear anything.”
“I’ll keep my ears open.” Brinkman checked his watch. “Dinner time. There’s a new restaurant here that specializes in Chateaubriand—”
The telephone rang. Brinkman listened, then said, “I’ll get on it,” and hung up.
“Well, Brian,” he said, “that South Africa business may or may not have any substance. But the report I just received from Colombia is concrete and specific. You’re interested in chemical weapons? You and I are going to have some lively after-dinner conversation.”
****
Bogotá, Colombia
When Sledge finished his phone call to Roger Brinkman, responsibility descended upon him with the weight of an Abrams tank. Things had looked so simple before—corral the brat, watch her with Argus eyes until he delivered her to Steve Spinner, and his mission was accomplished. But the photographs and the factory saddled him with another onerous task. Now he’d have to suffer at least one interview with some CIA bureaucrat who’d try to prove Sledge and Kristin were liars so he wouldn’t have to take action. Win or lose, that wouldn’t be pleasant.
He thought again of his dream: struggling through a dangerous valley to reach his goal on the hilltop, only to face another valley and another hill. He’d fought through one such valley to effect the rescue, then through a second to recapture the brat and her precious photographs. And now, having mounted that hill, he found that yet another lay before him.
Could the dream be prophetic? How many high-risk valleys and hilltops must he suffer through before beginning life as New Sledge?
****
Sledge’s somber mood of the night before continued as he escorted Kristin to Bogotá’s El Dorado Airport for their homeward flight. Her mood matched his, and neither had much to say. In contrast, Ramón and Elena kept up a constant chatter. Well they might, for their part of the operation was nearly over. Sledge hoped his was, too. All he had to do now was deliver Kristin, in her guise as Jocelyn, to Steve Spinner in New Orleans.
It was the hidden chemical weapons factory that governed his dark mood. It posed a dangerous threat to Colombia. To other nations as well. That C-47 headed north had to be delivering the weapons somewhere. And all he could do was report what he knew. Roger Brinkman had arranged for someone—Sledge didn’t know who—to debrief him and Kristin in Miami between flights. His responsibility should end there, for only the U.S. government had the resources to deal with the factory. But he had a nagging suspicion it wouldn’t be that simple. His dream of successive hills to climb still haunted him.
“It’s great to be going home.” Kristin’s voice called him from his brooding as their foursome entered the terminal. “There were times when I wondered if I’d ever see home again.”
Ramón showed his inevitable grin. “I wish you both bon voyages.”
He ought to be euphoric, Sledge reflected. Ramón’s part of the operation had worked to perfection, and the payment he’d receive would keep him in the money for years.
Sledge ought to be euphoric, too, but he couldn’t manage it. His bleak mood held as he and his companions worked their way through the other travelers in the terminal concourse.
Then Kristin stopped cold, her eyes focused on the crowd lined up for a direct flight to Houston. Sledge would have preferred that flight, but the later Miami flight had better connections to New Orleans.
“Sledge,” Kristin said, her voice almost a gasp. “That man near the head of the line—the one with the short blond hair. Didn’t we see him yesterday at...at you know where?”
Sledge followed her gaze. Though they had seen the man only through binoculars, there was no mistaking him. It wasn’t just the blond hair or even his size, though he was taller and heavier than Sledge. It was his swagger and the hauteur of the way he held his head.
Those were enough to arouse anyone’s hackles, but now at close range Sledge saw a cold ruthlessness in the eyes that he could not see through binoculars. He hoped he’d never have to meet that man one-on-one. Yet the man’s presence required some kind of action.
Kristin gripped Sledge’s arm. “We can’t just stand here and do nothing.”
“Don’t stare.” Sledge drew her into a huddle with Ramón and Elena. “If you can find out who he is, Ramón, maybe Roger Brinkman can put a tail on him after he lands.”
Ramón’s eyes sparkled. “Elena, it is time for you your stuff to be doing.” He strolled idly toward the check-in counter, where the attendant was gathering up the flight’s documentation. Elena moved quickly down the line of passengers as if she were afraid of missing her place at the head of the line. As she came abreast of the hulking blond, her purse fell to the floor. The big man never moved, but four men on either side scrambled to retrieve it for her. She rewarded them with the brightest of smiles, then turned on the blond one. Hands on hips, she poured forth a stream of rapid Spanish, which Sledge was glad enough not to understand.
The object of her wrath took a step back, apparently not understanding a word. One of Elena’s four helpers stepped forward as translator. The discussion continued, with the dumfounded hulk seeming to apologize for an offense he clearly did not comprehend.
Sledge enjoyed the show so much that he forgot to watch Ramón until the latter materialized at his elbow with another self-satisfied grin.
“It has cost Señor Spinner another fifty dollars,” he said. “The man travels under the name Erich Staab. He carries an American passport, though he speaks with a heavy accent—German, the clerk thinks. He is booked on the direct flight to Houston and has asked about connecting flights to the west, but he did not say where. Here is his picture.”
Ramón held up his cell phone, which showed a clear likeness of Elena’s target. That target showed the incredulous expression of a person who has no idea why he is being attacked. Sledge could almost feel sorry for the brute.
“When you have boarded your flight,” Ramón continued, “I will phone this information to Señor Brinkman in two shakes of a sheepish tale, and I will send him this photo.” He took Sledge and Kristin by the elbow and eased them along the concourse toward their gate.
“That’s fine, Ramón,” Sledge said, “but how will we get Elena out of that situation?”
Ramon beamed. “She has four gallant courtiers to do her bidding, and Señor Staab will be most glad to be rid of her.”
They had not gone far when a smiling Elena appeared beside them.
“Well done, mi vida,” murmured Ramón. “Remind me to buy you a special dinner at your favorite restaurant.”
Elena’s hands again flew to her hips, and she cocked her head to one side. “One dinner? Pah! You must buy me a new hat and a bottle of my favorite perfume. No more of that stinking cologne this time, you cheapskate. Perfume!”
Ramón made no reply to Elena’s onslaught, and Sledge and Kristin could not talk because it took full effort to keep from laughing. After thanking Ramón and Elena again, they boarded their flight.
As the aircraft lifted off, Sledge’s amusement turned again to solemn thought. He didn’t relish the debriefing that lay ahead in Miami, and he didn’t look forward to another encounter with Steve Spinner. But more than that, something told him that neither interview would provide a clean break with the grim realities he’d found in Colombia.